


In the Wake of Desire

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Pre-Canon, Smut, Vignette, fuckruary2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22507306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Lux always has a new pleasure to be discovered, and there's always a new desire for Lucifer to fulfill. And another, and another.And another.
Relationships: Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)/Original Character(s)
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 27
Kudos: 100





	In the Wake of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to _try_ to write a fill for every [prompt](https://imgur.com/ZZB58IB) this month, sugar and spice being combined for each day. Not all prompt fills will be literal.
> 
> Thanks to [matchstick_dolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_dolly/pseuds/matchstick_dolly) for betaing!
> 
> Prompt: Desire/Double Penetration
> 
> Additional warnings in end notes.

Lucifer marks out the last few notes of _Feeling Good,_ rises, acknowledges the smattering of applause from the nearby clubgoers, and heads to the bar for a fresh drink. Once he’s acquired a whiskey, neat, he turns and leans against the bar, staring out over the dance floor as music starts pounding from recessed speakers. It’s been a good set and a good night, and he is eager to partake in the riches he has cultivated. He sighs, running his eyes over Saturday night’s usual retainer of bachelorette and birthday parties, those wanting to make a deal, and, of course, the innumerable pleasure seekers.

Often, he’ll make time with the celebrants before settling down to business, but tonight he has something different in mind. Mazikeen watches from a booth across the room as he stalks out into the writhing revelers. Perhaps she’ll join him later, though recently she’s been acting somewhat withdrawn. He shakes his head and puts it out of his mind. Nothing a good fuck, or fight, won’t cure; maybe even both, if he’s lucky.

The dancers part as he glides past them, though some approach, circling him, reaching out to touch. He well knows Lux’s reputation—has built it personally from numerous deals and trysts—and he’ll gladly take advantage of that fact. He dances with three women and two men, all beautiful, all who flash disappointment as he pulls away and moves on to the next. He has no doubt they will find someone else to enjoy, but they are not precisely what he is looking for tonight.

And then he sees her—hair brown and short cropped, skin finely tanned, she sits at a corner table, slowly nursing a fruity cocktail. She’s alone, and she glances at him every few minutes as he works the crowd, an intensity to her gaze that draws him in. He skirts an especially large party to lean against the edge of her table, pitching his voice high enough to be heard over the pounding beat.

“Having a good evening?” he asks, and he truly wants to know. It would not do to be an unsatisfactory host.

She nods, looking up at him, and blushes ever so slightly. A shy one. How delightful. He notes as he leans closer that her gloriously tight and exceptionally flattering dress—whose deep scarlet color brings out the richness of her dark brown eyes—has a tag still attached, tucked beneath the fabric under her arm.

Humans and their money… he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly understand. Though poverty—of a sorts, at least—is something he knows quite well.

“Can I get you a drink?” he says, tilting his head to indicate her empty glass. She purses her lips into a thin line, and he realizes the passion he sensed in her before is anger as well as arousal. He raises his hands appeasingly and amends, “It’s on the house. Have whatever you like.” He gestures at the bar.

She gets up, still watching him with some degree of uncertainty, and heads to the bar. He waits by her table, sipping his whiskey and watching the thrumming of the crowd. He _could_ simply wander back onto the dance floor and have his pick of more-than-willing human, but there’s a buried desire there that intrigues him. So he waits as she approaches the bar and orders, not looking back. She is quite remarkably gorgeous, and the dress suits her perfectly, emphasizing the length of her legs and the curve of her ass.

He makes brief eye contact with Patrick to assent to the free drink, then loses himself to the ebb and flow of the music, feeling the vibration of the bass travel up his legs, the sensation lodging in his chest. He notes when she starts to head back in his direction, but leaves his eyes closed, his fingertips marking out the beat on the table.

“The bartender said you’re the owner.”

“Yes.”

“And your name is _Lucifer?”_

He lets his eyes fall open. “You know mine, but I don’t know yours.”

She looks supremely unimpressed, but he rather likes it. “Zoe,” she says shortly.

There is a power in names, and he smiles at this boon she’s granted him. “It is very nice to meet you, Zoe. Tell me, what do you desire?”

The sound of the music falls away as she meets his eyes, and he is lost in her for the barest moment. “I want…”

“Yes?” Her desire is so sweet, held as honey under her tongue, and he leans forward, hoping for a taste.

“I want to forget my cheating, good-for-nothing ex-boyfriend,” she says in a rush, as if she finds shame in it; but there’s a defiance in her gaze that only piques his interest more.

“Well…” He hums, stepping closer. “I think I may be able to help with that, if you’re amenable?”

She dares another look at him and nods. As he leads her to the elevator, he takes closer note of the dress. Later, he’ll find it and have it sent to her alongside a note encouraging her to follow those desires she couldn’t under the yoke of another. He has his own experience with that, though this he will not say.

She will never return to Lux, nor respond to his message, but he’ll be glad for it, hopeful that she is finding the pleasures she deserves.

* * *

The elevator dings, and Lucifer spares just enough brain power to guide his partner through the doors before he allows himself to be carried away in their kiss again. They taste like the strawberry daiquiri they were drinking, and he moans, leading them up the stairs. They fall to the bed together, but when he reaches for the hem of their skirt, they stop him with fingers gently circling his wrist.

He pulls away from their mouth and asks, “Anything wrong?”

They shake their head. “C-can I use your bathroom?”

“Certainly. It’s right down that hallway. The door with the frosted glass.”

While they’re gone, he heads to the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, them a glass of ice water.

When they return, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. He holds out the glass, and they accept it, taking a small sip. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” they murmur.

He makes no move to approach, simply waiting. “Tell me,” he says, less because he needs to know and more because he feels they need to tell someone. “What do you desire?”

They stare at him, shivering, and he looks away, filled with something disturbingly akin to recognition. He swallows back his insistence. Let them determine whether they want to tell him whatever they’ve discovered, he decides. He refuses to consider why.

They glance at the elevator behind them, and he thinks they’ll simply leave. He almost wishes for it. But instead they join him on the bed, smoothing their skirt over their thighs, watching the motion of their hands. “My parents kicked me out,” they say eventually. “They couldn’t accept who I was, or didn’t want to. I-I don’t know.”

There’s a strange ache beneath Lucifer’s ribs, and it only grows when they continue. “Maybe I shouldn’t have… Maybe I should have just pretended I was n-normal.”

Lucifer’s heart twinges, and the pain forces words from his mouth he wouldn’t ordinarily say. “It is better to burn as who you are than to smolder as something else.” The sentiment is bitter, and he misses the taste of strawberries desperately.

They blink. “Better to reign in Hell, huh?”

Brimstone and hellfire flash through his mind, but so does Heaven’s crueler light. “Better than servitude, certainly.”

“I…I just want someone to want me,” they whisper, voice so small it fills the room with a deeper kind of silence. “ _All_ of me.”

The ache grows worse, but Lucifer pushes it down, covers it up with a leer. He makes a show of ogling them, dark-haired head to booted feet. “I assure you,” he says, running his tongue over the back of his teeth, “that I am _very_ interested.”

There’s a beat, two, and Lucifer thinks they aren’t going to go for it, but then they abruptly dive at him, and he ends up with an armful of horny human—his favorite place to be. He reaches for the hem of their skirt again, and they press into the contact. He meets their lips with his, then kisses down their neck. Their dark skin is salty-sweet with sweat, and he breathes it in, moving back up to nip at their earlobe.

Later, when he’s covered every inch of their skin in kisses and gentle bites and a kinder attention than others have granted them, he’ll offer to find them a job so they can afford to stay in L.A. A deal, he’ll say, though reciprocity will be the last thing on his mind. They will nod and smile and say, _maybe,_ but he will never see them again.

The last he’ll have heard, they’ve moved back home.

* * *

With one final tug, Lucifer and the man are both naked, climbing onto the bed to meet with lips and tongues and searching hands. Lucifer maneuvers himself atop the man and lines up their hips, grinding down. He works him up to full hardness while pressing kisses and careful bites to his neck and chest. They breathe together for a moment before Lucifer smirks, leaving him with only a short kiss before he’s sliding down his body, skimming his ribs, gently marking his hipbones.

“Oh, shit,” he cries as Lucifer wraps his lips around the head of his cock, sucking softly.

Lucifer pulls away to tease and asks, “What did you say your research was on?”

“Star formation,” he gasps as Lucifer cups his balls and squeezes lightly. “I-I just got accepted into UCLA’s graduate program.”

Lucifer grins. “How delightful! Well, you certainly deserve a reward then.” And before he can speak, Lucifer squares his shoulders and gets down to getting him off. While his nose presses against soft, warm skin and the thick head of the man’s cock presses against the back of his throat, he thinks about the stars—how hot they were between his palms, how bright their fires that brought light to a dark universe.

But the past and the future are both lost in the rocking motion, in the reflexive swallowing of his throat, in the heat and urgency between his lips. The man is moaning above him, panting breathlessly, words lost to his rise as he climbs higher and higher. His hands clench in Lucifer’s hair, and he presses into the contact, increasing the suction, the speed. And, with an almost pained groan, he’s coming.

Lucifer sits up and wipes his mouth, grinning again. The man looks wrecked beneath him, blond hair sweaty on his forehead. He blinks rapidly and refocuses his gaze. “Damn,” he says.

“Thank you,” Lucifer says primly. “Now, I think it’s time for the rest of your reward, if you’re amenable?”

“I… Yeah?”

“Excellent.” Lucifer slides back up his body, kissing up his chest, stopping to bite at his nipples, meeting his softening cock with just the right amount of sensation. Lucifer smirks down at him, then rises to flip him over beneath him. He snags a pillow to support his hips and kisses the back of his neck, working his way back down.

Lucifer drags his nails down the curve of the man’s ass, and he shivers. “Please,” he whispers.

“Of course,” he says, reaching out to the bedside table for the lube. He works him opens slowly, one finger, then two, twisting, scissoring, until the color in his cheeks is creeping down his neck and he’s moaning brokenly into the pillows.

“Ready, love?” Lucifer asks softly.

“Please, please, just…” He pants. “Come _on.”_

“Certainly,” Lucifer says, and he slips on a condom, applies more lube, and sinks in steadily.

Later, they’ll talk more about his research, and Lucifer will offer suggestions that go entirely unnoticed. After all, he only made the stars, not the math. He’ll invite the man back to Lux, but he’ll never take him up on it.

* * *

Lucifer rounds the bed and approaches the man and woman who lie entwined on the mattress. So often has he done this, been this—a Devil’s threesome, the humans call it. _You and me and the Devil makes three_ and all that business. Since Eve and Adam in the garden it has been this, and if he were forced to pick any combination of humanity with which to engage, it would be his namesake.

As is often the case with such configurations, his partners for this evening are already partnered themselves—married, and looking for a third to celebrate their anniversary.

He grins as he comes near, running his fingertips down the woman’s back and over the man’s hip. They shiver in concert, and he joins them on the bed, stretching out beside them to tease and touch and feel their closeness. Their moans turn wanton as their rhythm falters, and Lucifer leans closer to their sweaty faces, whispering so as not to disturb their ecstasy. “What do you desire?”

 _“You,”_ they groan together, and he rises to hold himself over them.

He slips on a condom, applies lube, and begins to slowly grind his way in. The woman’s already been prepared so it doesn’t take long until he’s bottoming out, sliding against the pressure provided by the other man’s cock, and she’s keening loudly, her back arching. He guides them into a slower, sweeter angle, and his free hand traces the lines of the man’s body, painting heat on hips and chest and throat.

As their rhythm speeds up, Lucifer parts the woman’s hair to press kisses to the back of her neck and down her spine. She cries out when his hips snap against her harder, and he trails his hand down and marks out a rough rhythm on her clit. Her body undulates, rippling between them, and the man begins to shudder, sending vibrations through their bodies.

He’s speaking, now, nonsense syllables that tell of his impending orgasm, but Lucifer shifts his hand enough to grip the base of his cock, holding him steady as he pants and writhes. _Not yet, not yet, not yet,_ he thinks, moaning as the woman tightens around both of them. The man’s wanton motions travel up through her, and she scratches at his chest, reaching for his hand to center them both.

Every shift of their bodies, no matter how minute, pulses against Lucifer, and he rides the wave of their desires, letting them wrest every scrap of pleasure they can from him. The man’s cock throbs under his fingers, and he tightens his grip yet further. He shouts in pleasure and frustration both, and she moves against him roughly.

She comes with a cry, clenching around Lucifer and the man, but Lucifer doesn’t let him follow her, holds him on the verge and thrusts shallowly to prolong her release. She pants against the man’s chest, and Lucifer lets him go, repositioning his hands on the woman’s hips.

They cry out together as he rocks into them, no longer trying to maintain a rhythm of their own. They cling to each other as every stroke provides a secondary thrust, timed to make them buck their hips and gasp. The woman climbs her second peak quickly, and the man rises with her.

Lucifer rolls his hips, trying to impart upon them the joy he feels at their pleasure, and they pant, mouth to mouth, lost, it seems, in each other’s eyes. They come together, laughing breathlessly, meeting each other’s lips with inelegant kisses, Lucifer following behind.

He pulls away, tosses the condom, and leaves the love-struck couple for the bar and a fresh glass of whiskey. The burn is sweet down his throat, and he savors it. Later, they’ll thank him profusely, promise to keep in touch, and walk into the elevator hand in hand.

He’ll smile after them, truly glad to have known them, thinking of all those who came before, abandoned to their respective centuries.

And then he’ll turn back to the bar and pour himself another drink.

* * *

“You did so, so well, darling,” Lucifer murmurs to the woman splayed out beneath him. She arches her back and shudders, keening wordlessly as he presses slow circles into her clit, but he wasn’t really expecting a response. She _did_ do well—he doesn’t lie—and definitely deserves this rest. They all do.

Around them, the penthouse is filled with other couples and groups going at it against and on various surfaces while, in the center, a man and a woman hang comfortably from the nicer of the myriad things humans call ‘racks’. They, he was told, won the most gold medals for the men’s and women’s swim teams.

He’s always liked the Olympics, though it’s rather a shame the athletes no longer compete in the nude. Here, of course, they return to that glorious tradition.

But Lucifer ignores all of them in favor of the woman beneath him, for now, at least. She groans and cries out rhythmically as he increases the pace of his fingers, bringing his other hand up to fondle her breasts and massage at the finely-defined muscles of her arms and shoulders. “You are _glorious,”_ he whispers as her expression twists into something akin to pain but so much sweeter, as her hands come up to claw at his chest, sliding up to clutch his face.

“ _Shit_ ,” she curses tersely as she tightens around his questing fingers. He switches to short strokes against her clit with his thumb to draw out her pleasure, and she throws her head back against the pillows, gasping.

“Tell me,” Lucifer begins in a low voice, and for a moment there is only her, only him, and perhaps the entire universe is silent just to hear the question. The first question, once asked to a dark and empty universe. The only question that has ever mattered, one he asks over and over again. “What do you truly desire?”

“Fuck me,” she says simply, and _oh,_ there is such grace in it.

He presses inside to the last of her contractions and groans at the rippling of muscle before starting up a quick, sharp rhythm. Her legs come up around his hips and then higher as they speed up, moving together, faster and faster. He clenches his jaw as the pressure begins to be too much and slips a hand down her toned stomach to roughly thumb her clit. She comes with a shout, and he can hear several people follow after her as he slows and pulls her into his arms.

It’s always this way at these sorts of events, since he first instigated an orgy in Sodom. Desire compounds desire, and what pleasures have been granted ought to be paid in kind. Lucifer adjusts their angle until she’s crying out again, clenching around him. He brushes the blonde curls from her sweaty face and traces her lips. She pants against his fingertips, and he brings his touch to bear over the line of her throat, between her breasts, splaying his hand out over her stomach.

He rocks them slowly, grinding deep at the end of each thrust, feeling her muscles tense and release as she does, dragging them both closer to the edge. Her hands clench in the sheets, her ankles cross behind his back, and she’s coming again, soundless this time, mouth open in a wordless scream.

He waits a beat, two, long enough for her to have taken all the pleasure from him she can before he takes his own, moaning into her hair. He presses a kiss to her lips before pulling away to dispose of the condom, and she leaps up from the bed, spry as anything. A young man is leaning against one of the columns that frame the entrance to his bedroom, and he grants him an inviting smile before returning his attention to the woman.

But she’s already turning away, toward the hot tub, toward the next pleasure, and he, of all people, certainly can’t blame her.

“Congratulations on your gold,” he tells her retreating form.

She waves, but doesn’t look back.

* * *

Lucifer imagines he can feel the beat from Lux’s speakers pounding beneath his feet from so many floors away and frowns. Beneath him waits a woman, a man, another. A couple, a group. Another pleasure to share; another celebration to take part in. Another soul to hold for the briefest moment, feeling the flames lick against his palms. But instead, he turns away from the open elevator doors, bypasses the bar, and takes the few steps up to his room. He stares at the bed, at the black and the gold, at the fresh sheets—always fresh, _always_ —and turns away from it too, heading to the closet, then the bathroom.

It is very quiet here behind two closed doors.

He switches the light on and looks at himself in the mirror. He’s already performed his set, merely came up for a costume change before a long night observing and seducing and fucking, so he’s dressed in his customary suit. He ought to return downstairs—Delilah, he’s heard, won another Grammy and may come to celebrate. Although she didn’t for the last one.

He wonders idly if he’s managed to scare her off.

He ought to return downstairs, but the thought wearies him in a way it rarely does. Normally, this mood is easily washed away with drink or drugs or sex, but his bar doesn’t appeal to him tonight, his stock of illicit substances is running concerningly low for once, and the idea of company badly turns his stomach.

Instead, he pulls off his black suit jacket and lets it fall to the floor—he will be annoyed at the wrinkles later, but later does not currently concern him. The white shirt comes with it, shrugged off with a casual air even he doesn’t believe. His belt buckle makes a small _clang_ when it impacts the tiles, and he kicks his Louboutins under the edge of the counter. And, still, he watches himself in the mirror. He has seen many a strip show, more than he can reasonably count, and yet this one leaves him so very cold.

He pulls off his socks, tossing them in the vicinity of the shower, and pushes his trousers down around his ankles, then off entirely to trail against the ground. He had never understood why in Heaven Father insisted he and his siblings wear the robes he mocks Amenadiel for at any given opportunity. He preferred always to feel the light and the breeze on his skin. Only in Hell did he come to understand that their clothing was a mark of their station and their purpose. His scars itch, suddenly, and he reaches back to alleviate their discomfort.

He groans low in his throat as the feeling of relief spreads through his body. It’s only a simple pleasure, but he’s always preferred the simple pleasures—they are the most difficult to lose. He takes himself in hand almost as an afterthought.

The band of his ring is cold on his flesh as he works himself to hardness, and he’s glad for how it drags him back to the present. There is nothing waiting for him in the past except mistakes made to find some kind of companionship that never existed. The present moment has always been so much kinder.

His free hand comes up to scratch his stomach, tweak his nipples, skim his throat and trace his lips. He pauses there, fingertips pressed to his mouth, before he allows them past his lips to meet his tongue. They taste of wood polish from the piano and tar from his cigarette, but he conjures illusions of honey and strawberries to sustain himself.

He sucks to the rhythm of his strokes, long and slow, from base to tip, and when his fingers are thoroughly wetted, he withdraws them to press between his buttocks to tease. He pulls on himself faster and faster, hips bucking into the motion of his hands, fingers questing deeper. He catches his reflection in the mirror, hissing out its breaths, a flush in its cheeks and a gleam in its eyes from the sheer joy of it. He stumbles to the sink, hand coming up to clench on the counter. He pants through gritted teeth and slows for a moment, tracing a vein down to the head of his cock, teasing at the slickness there. He cups his balls, trails his fingertips up to press circles against his hipbones, then takes himself in hand again, starting up a sharp, hard rhythm.

He holds himself in exquisite tension, pressure building, color and light bursting behind his eyes. And, for the barest moment, he holds again the heat of stars.

He comes abruptly, caught off guard by his body for the first time in a long time, and gasps by instinct into empty air, “What do you desire?”

No one answers, of course; there’s no one left to speak.

He turns the sink on and washes himself, watching his release disappear into the drain, followed by soap bubbles that replace his scent with that of lavender. He glances up, sees his reflection in the mirror—eyeliner smudged, hair teased out into curls—and turns away to dry himself off. He dresses in silence and wets his hand to smooth down his hair. He turns off the light and leaves the bathroom, heading to the bar.

 _Hell,_ he could do with a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning: Reference to parental abuse, reference to transphobia


End file.
